


what the blade remembers

by jan



Category: Peacemaker Kurogane
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-15
Updated: 2011-05-15
Packaged: 2017-10-19 11:02:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/200123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jan/pseuds/jan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A Russian translation by <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/axandra/pseuds/axandra">axandra</a>/<a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/Honocho/pseuds/Honocho">Honocho</a> can be found <a href="http://ficbook.net/readfic/2965509">here (offsite)</a> or <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/5283677">here on AO3</a>.</p></blockquote>





	what the blade remembers

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Что помнит клинок](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5283677) by [Honocho](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Honocho/pseuds/Honocho)



"Ah," Souji says. The syllable is neutral, betraying nothing. "I see."

Outside, against the grey of the afternoon sky, the bare branches of trees shiver in the wind. Hijikata slides the door shut, still not meeting Souji's gaze. It has been a long winter.

Souji toys with the edge of his quilt, the action more absent than nervous. His voice remains light, almost cheerful. "It makes sense, doesn't it? It's been so long since I've trained, and I couldn't even join you at Toba..." His fingers still, half-curled into cloth. "When did Kondou-san say I should leave?"

"In a week or two. When it gets warmer."

Fourth year of the Keiou era, and this is where they are: a crippled force, counting their dead and dying. Hijikata can no longer tell anger from despair, or insight from desperation. He's cut his long hair, borrowed the graceless weapons of the West, exchanged a yukata for stiff foreign clothes – and still there are too many things that he has to leave behind, too many things he cannot save.

A rustle of cloth. Hijikata looks up, ready to snap at Souji for exerting himself, but something in the other man's eyes makes him pause. Souji pulls himself to his feet, slowly. There's something of his old grace in his movements, an echo of his former levity in his voice as he smiles and says: "Don't look so upset, Hijikata-san. I'm sure Matsumoto-sensei's hospital will be a good place for me. Besides—" and there is only the slightest hesitation "—I haven't been useful for a long while."

The words are a blade to the chest; what makes it worse is that Hijikata agrees. "Souji—"

Four, five steps, and Souji has crossed the room. He pauses half a step before Hijikata, then reaches out to take his hand. Hijikata fights an irrational urge to pull away.

"Hijikata-san."

Up close, Souji smells of blood. Not in the way he used to do, after battle, with red splattered up to his elbows and the air a mix of spilt blood and oiled steel; this tang is old, almost sour. His calloused fingers are cold against Hijikata's own, his breathing laboured, unsteady. Souji leans in carefully, as if Hijikata were the fragile one, and rests his head gently against the curve of a collarbone.

Hijikata is not the sort of man to flinch. But he closes his eyes against the contact, despite himself, as the fingers of his free hand curl into a shaking fist. Souji's body is fever-warm against his, the sensation of closeness at once missed and yet too painfully familiar. When did he become so thin? Hijikata imagines the tell-tale tremor in Souji's chest, the death-rattle lurking behind the layers of cloth that separate them. There are some enemies against which he can do nothing.

"Don't be silly, Hijikata-san." Souji's voice is level, untrembling, devoid of bitterness. "This is how it has to be, isn't it? You shouldn't worry about visiting me, either. The men need you here."

" _I_ need—"

"No." Souji smiles into the folds of Hijikata's strange, foreign clothes. "You have no need of a broken sword."

 

* * *

 

The spring of the first year of Keiou should be a time for new beginnings, for something worthy to finally rise from the wreckage of these years. Instead, while the cherry trees bloom, they bury an old friend.

Days afterwards, Hijikata can still feel Yamanami's blood on his skin. Souji keeps to his room; Hijikata does not interrupt his seclusion. If he allowed himself to think about it, he would acknowledge this as avoidance, even cowardice. But there are other matters to deal with, all of them easier than confronting that fresh wound, and it takes a worried suggestion from Kondou for him to finally seek Souji out.

The room is dark, lit only by the dying evening light. Souji sits by the window, a half-unfurled scroll by his feet. He doesn't turn around at Hijikata's entrance.

"Kondou says that you haven't been eating well."

There's no response. Hijikata wonders what Kondou had expected him, of all people, to be able to do. His skills do not lie in the healing of the wounded. He tries again: "You haven't been showing up at practice, either. The men are demoralised enough without seeing their captain like this." The words are entirely wrong, but they're all that Hijikata has. "If you don't take better care of yourself—"

"—then I'm no use to the Shinsengumi. I know that." Souji looks up, finally, from his place by the window. Hijikata cannot quite make out the expression on his face. "I apologise."

The formality is jarring. Hijikata pauses, momentarily nonplussed, then heads across the room. Yamanami would have known what to say, he thinks. It makes him want to laugh. It makes him sick.

At his approach, Souji's gaze slips towards the floor instead. His voice, when he speaks again, is distant: "He was right, you know. Perhaps this is what it means to be a demon. It doesn't matter who it is. I just. Without hesitation, I just..."

The emptiness in Souji's voice is more disquieting than sadness or hysteria would have been. Hijikata has never been the sort of man able to offer comfort, but he kneels beside Souji, puts a hand on his shoulder and searches for a response. What can one say in the face of truth?

"You gave him what he wanted." Realization crystallizes, sharp and painful, as he speaks the words. _You bloodied your hands for us_ , he thinks, and feels a stab of anger: at Yamanami for making Souji do it, at himself and Kondou for letting it happen. Beneath the anger, an old regret resurfaces and takes new form. There is already too much for which Hijikata is responsible.

For a while, there is silence. Souji's shoulders tighten momentarily, relax. And then: "He _knew_." There's emotion now, finally, and it is almost with relief that Hijikata notes the suppressed tears that thicken Souji's voice, the hand that grasps suddenly at his sleeve. "He knew that I'd do it—he knew that I'd cut down anyone, even him, that I'd do it for—"

The accusation goes unspoken. Souji swallows the rest of the sentence, moves closer, his breath warm and trembling against the hollow of Hijikata's throat. Hijikata tries to focus on the sound of Souji's breathing, on the scent of his hair, anything but the memory of Yamanami's choked words. He fails. Something cold and heavy is forming within him, grief or guilt or regret, as his hand tightens uselessly on Souji's shoulder. He can't bring himself to put an arm around Souji, to draw him closer – what right does he have? Yamanami was right. This is the fruit of his education: a demon still human enough for pain.

He waits, helpless. Through the thin walls, muffled and incongruous, there filters the chatter of the men heading for the kitchens: lively despite their losses, like swallows returning after a cruel winter. As the minutes pass, Souji's breathing smoothes out into a shaky approximation of calm.

"I know my duty as a captain," Souji says eventually. "I'm sorry if I worried the men with my absence." He looks up, eyes dry, and releases his hold on Hijikata's sleeve.

Then, like sunlight breaking through clouds: a smile. "Shall we have dinner, Hijikata-san?"

 

That night, hours later, Yamanami's bloodstained form appears in his dreams. His eyes are bright with some unnameable emotion as he looks up at Hijikata, grasping his collar in one shaking hand.

 _Hijikata-kun_ , the apparition says. _Do you remember? All those years ago, when we were young and the future bright with promise—he was just a boy._

In this dream there is no one else in the Shinsengumi's sun-bleached yard, yet a sword – Souji's sword – is sunk deep into Yamanami's back. Yamanami takes a step closer, unsteady. He fills Hijikata's vision; the smell of his blood fills the air. _How could a mere boy choose to become a demon? It was us who led him down this path, who gave him the sword – no, that's not it, is it. You_ made _him your sword._

Hijikata can't move. Yamanami coughs, wetly. There's something in his eyes that could be sadness, or pity, or simply the shadow of approaching death. _I wish—I wish we had known. Or wouldn't that have stopped you? Perhaps you knew, all those years ago, what we would create. Perhaps you wanted... But never mind._ He smiles; even that gesture looks difficult. _It's too late for that. It's been too late for a long time. You've got what you wanted: your pet demon, your sharpened blade. Okita-kun—_

Hijikata wakes to the sound of his racing heart.

The air in the room is still, smelling only of stale pipe smoke. Souji is a warm weight in the darkness, curled against him, one hand clutching the front of Hijikata's robes.

 

* * *

 

A sword is not formed merely in the instance of forging. The wielder gives it life, transforms inert weight into singing steel. And then time, too, does its own forging. The sword comes to learn the taste of blood, the give and yield of flesh, the right path through the air; acquires a patina of experience or of rust.

In battle Souji is a flashing blade, cold-eyed death on blue-and-white wings. Sometimes Hijikata watches and feels a tightness in his chest, a stab of what might be pride or recognition or pain.

Don't call it love. It's an inadequate word.

 

* * *

 

A spring evening: the restless air brisk, crisp with the anticipation of change. There is still a newness to things – the foreign streets of Kyoto, the fresh blue of their uniforms, the Mibu-roushigumi quarters which don't quite mirror those of the Shieikan. Here in their new rooms, even the tatami's scent is different.

Perhaps that explains the odd thrill of tonight, as a familiar game unfolds on unfamiliar ground. Souji's hair spills dark across the floor as he lies back, laughing, his strong arms pulling Hijikata closer; deeper. He smells of grass and sweat and, incongruously, tea. Hijikata presses a fierce kiss to the side of his neck, feels rather than hears the flutter of Souji's appreciative sigh. Souji's pulse is a warm hum against Hijikata's lips.

They move together, bodies hot and slick with sweat, skin flushed as in the heat of battle. The analogy is coarse, unsubtle; unavoidable. The room is but an extension of the dojo, this tryst another form of sparring, their movements a tempered harmony of instinct and experience. Hijikata presses closer, revels in the sweet firm strength of Souji's body. By now they have learnt each other's rhythm, methods, weaknesses – Souji twists, arching hard and sudden against him, and Hijikata barely stifles a gasp, fingers tightening around the muscled curve of Souji's waist. Souji laughs in something close to triumph. His smile gleams, sharp, in the room's shadows.

Later, spent, they allow themselves the luxury of carelessness. Souji rests against him, loose-limbed and unguarded. His hair is a fall of silk across Hijikata's arm. The moonlight, shattered by the window frame, draws pale shapes across his skin, and Hijikata follows their design, traces the lines of Souji's body with his gaze: an elegant shoulder, the smooth curve of his jaw.

"Hijikata-san?"

The look in Souji's half-lidded eyes, when Hijikata meets them, is oddly gentle. Hijikata looks away, a strange ache rising in his chest. "Hm?"

"Goodnight." A pause – and then Souji stretches up, briefly, and kisses Hijikata on the cheek. There's a soft smile on his face as he settles back down, nestled against Hijikata’s side.

Tomorrow there will be duties to fulfil and people to meet, a new city's streets ready for mapping. Tonight there is this moment, whole and perfect: Souji, beside him, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Hijikata closes his eyes against the darkness, listens to the untroubled rhythm of Souji's breathing: a lullaby, a promise, a poem he can't find the words for.

**Author's Note:**

> A Russian translation by [axandra](http://archiveofourown.org/users/axandra/pseuds/axandra)/[Honocho](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Honocho/pseuds/Honocho) can be found [here (offsite)](http://ficbook.net/readfic/2965509) or [here on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5283677).


End file.
